


choose not a life of imitation

by seditonem



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seditonem/pseuds/seditonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>english sixth form au: "Are we insufferable?" James asks, looking up after watching her ass for a moment (she's wearing a really nice skirt today), but Michael's face is hidden behind his book.</p><p>"We're insufferable," Michael replies. It looks like the book is talking.</p><p>"Oh good," James smiles. "I have Skittles, d'you want one?"<br/>WARNINGS: mild drug use, mentions of het sex, underage smoking and drinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	choose not a life of imitation

**i. spring 2009.**

  
  
"I'm thinking about classical civilization," James says, pushing the A-level choices booklet over to Michael. They're sitting in Michael’s back garden, because his parents are away for the weekend and so no one's going to notice if they smoke a joint or three, and the weather is unexpectedly hot and sunny for an English spring. There’s a slight breeze ruffling his hair, making it stick to his temples.  
  
Michael grins, rolling them another. His fingers move fast, practiced. There was a month where Michael wanted to roll his own cigarettes; he started off with sticky rizlas that fell apart and left tobacco under his fingernails. Now he rolls perfect thin cigarettes and, by his own admission, beautiful joints. "That is just - wow. At the same time very intellectual and very gay. You're already taking Latin."  
  
"That's the point," James laughs. "Doesn't the idea of a class where you get to dick around and talk about how everyone in Greek literature was banging everyone else appeal to you?"  
  
"When you put it that way," Michael shrugs, lighting up.  
  
James watches him inhale. He knew already that Michael would agree the second he mentioned it; people don't say they're two of a kind for nothing.  
  
 ****

** ii. autumn 2009. **

  
  
"I actually can't believe how much work I have," Michael tells James, running his hands through his hair so it sticks up on end for a few seconds before it flops down again. He's dyed it brown, for now, and it makes him look a lot older than sixteen, as do the bags under his eyes. "I really don't see the point of all this  _ridiculous_  differentiation, when am I going to need it? Ever? In life?"  
  
"My poor child," James soothes, grinning, and then remembers how much work he has himself. "Oh fuck, I forgot I have a Cicero test tomorrow." He sighs - half term can't come quick enough. James thinks back to the summer hazily: after exams they went to Reading, nearly died, got awfully drunk several times and at one point got involved in a life drawing class where Michael accidentally ended up modelling - but now, in the fully fury of AS levels, it all seems terribly far away.  
  
"Poetic justice," Michael smirks, leaning back.  
  
"I want to die," James moans, batting at Michael's face. Michael bears it patiently for a minute, and then catches James' hands and holds them away.  
  
"You guys could not look any more ridiculous if you tried," Anne-Marie sighs, coming over to them from where she was talking with a couple of other girls. They're sitting in the stuffy sixth-form common room on the long couches, James' head on Michael's lap and his feet up on the sofa.  
  
"We're not even trying, that's the problem," Michael says, seriously. Anne-Marie pulls a face and comes to sit next to them, putting James' legs over her lap. She sinks into the sofa; it looks a little like it’s trying to eat her.  
  
"Have you done the Cicero yet?' she asks, grimacing at the thought of it and leaning her head against Michael's shoulder.  
  
"No, I'll do it in -- ten minutes," James sighs, looking at the clock. "If you weren't so comfortable, getting up wouldn't be such a problem," he pouts, looking up at Michael.  
  
"Not my fault," Michael points out, getting a book out of his bag near James' head; "now be quiet, I have things to learn."  
  
"No you don't, you're reading." He frowns up at the cover. "You're reading  _For Whom the Bell Tolls_? Again?" James grouses, purposefully wriggling and elbowing Michael so he can't concentrate.  
  
"Cease your movement, heathen, or I'll push you off --  _ow_ , Jesus, watch the goods!"  
  
"I think I might actually have to leave you," Anne-Marie mutters. She moves James' legs and stalks off to the library. "You're both utterly insufferable to be around," she calls over her shoulder.  
  
"Are we insufferable?" James asks, looking up after watching her ass for a moment (she's wearing a really nice skirt today), but Michael's face is hidden behind his book.  
  
"We're insufferable," Michael replies. It looks like the book is talking.  
  
"Oh good," James smiles. "I have Skittles, d'you want one?"  
  


* * *

  
  
James met Michael on the first day of classes in year 9.  
  
"Nice accent," one of the kids muttered, when James had answered a question on ionic bonding.  
  
"Could be worse," someone else pointed out, and when James looked up, all he saw was gingery hair emerging over the top of a textbook.  
  
"Yeah. Could be Irish," James replied, trying to keep his voice level, and the book lowered to reveal an amused face.  
  
When the time came to choose partners for an experiment, all the boy said was, "I'm Michael. We both have accents and everyone else here looks like a dick. Pair up?"  
  
And that, as they say, was that.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Half term, half-term-half-term-half-term," Michael stage-whispers, his chin resting on James' shoulder, breath hot against the shell of James' ear. It makes him shiver a bit in contrast to the cold of the main hall.  
  
"Shut up," James mutters, hunkering down in his seat so Michael's chin nearly hits the top of the backrest. "We've got a whole assembly to get through first."  
  
"I have a free house," Michael mentions, fake-casual.  
  
"You're making this worse on purpose," James says, but he’s grinning.  
  
"And alcohol," adds Michael, and then he's gone, slouching back into his own seat in the row behind James as a teacher walks past, scowling at them for talking.  
  
In the middle of the assembly, just as their headmaster is talking about the dangers of drinking and drugs, someone throws a tiny paper ball at the back of his neck. James doesn't need to turn around to know who it is.  
  


**iii. christmas 2009.**

  
  
Autumn turns to winter, and before James realises it, it's Christmas holidays, and he's revising for mocks. And seriously regretting choosing Latin. James slumps down into his desk chair and sighs. It's one thing to find the idea of studying a language that was such a huge influence in the evolution of English interesting, and quite another to find the actual thing interesting. Especially when you're translating a passage about Nero and how he may or may not have slept with his mum.  
  
His phone vibrates violently on his desk. "Unless you have a spectacularly easy way of translating this passage, go away and leave me alone to die," he states, putting his head down on the desk.  
  
"That bad, huh?" Michael asks. He sounds bored.  
  
"I want to kill Nero, and then myself," James confesses seriously.  
  
"Your accent is really strong right now, you must be tired," Michael chips in, and then  _hmm_ s. "Horrible Histories have a song about Nero, actually," he says.  
  
"It sort of bothers me that you know that, but that might actually work," James sighs, closing his eyes against the desk. The draft from the crack in his window-frame blows over the back of his neck and he shivers. "When's your first exam?"  
  
"The Monday we get back, I think. Hey, do you have plans for New Year's?"  
  
"I think Gram wants to go see the fireworks in London, but I can beg out of it, why?" James turns his head so he can look out of his window while he talks.  
  
"You know Zoë?"  
  
James makes a non-committal noise. Zoë's in his drama class, and Michael's Maths set. She's pretty, but sort of on the skinny side.  
  
"She's having a New Year's party, I think it's gonna be pretty crazy, what d'you think?" Michael sounds sort of nervous, actually, James thinks. Which is odd. Michael is never nervous. Michael is many things, but not nervous, not even when faced with GCSE Further Maths and Physics on the same day.  
  
"I think," he begins, and then adds a dramatic pause - "I think you should come over and help me with this Latin, and then  _maybe_ we can go."  
  
"We?" Michael laughs. "I can’t go without you? Are we married?"  
  
"No, but I was planning on proposing over pizza, with a Haribo ring," James grins, shifting his phone so it doesn't press so hard against his ear. “Oh, and now I’ve ruined the surprise. What a shame.”  
  
"Oh, you didn't mention there was pizza involved. I'll be over in ten minutes."  
  
Michael hangs up. James puts a pizza in the oven and opens YouTube in a new tab in readiness.  
  


* * *

  
  
The week leading up to Christmas gives him cabin fever. James starts running in the early afternoons just to get out of the house as his Gram has enforced a  _no-party-till-New-Year's_  rule, and Michael's gone to see his grandparents. It feels oddly empty without him around, so James finds himself studying to try and ease the hours along.  
  
Study is too lenient a word - he sits at his desk and pretends to be revising. At least his exams are over in one fell swoop: he has four in two days. He shudders to think of it.  
  
The days between Christmas and New Year's drag on especially, and then there’s the awkward few days when his mum comes to say hi. It’s nice that she makes the effort, but at the same time, things were going pretty well anyway without her. He doesn’t say it, of course, but he’s sure it must show quite clearly on his face.  
  
Finally, though, the 31st comes, and James showers extra carefully before Michael comes over. He’s still drying his hair with a towel when his Gram opens the door and ushers Michael in - she adores him fiercely - and presses two glasses of sparkling wine into his hands.  
  
“What?” James frowns, confused. Michael looks pleasantly surprised.  
  
“I know you’re going out, but I thought perhaps if I gave you something now it’d stop you from getting utterly smashed later,” she explains with a smile, and then leaves. “If you don’t have faith you don’t have anything!” she calls through the door, and Michael bites his lip to keep from snorting with laughter.  
  
“Not bloody likely,” he says, passing a glass to James, and tosses his own back in one gulp. “Hurry up and find a shirt, will you? I am  _dying_  for a fag and Zoë said she’d keep a bottle of vodka for us.”  
  
James pauses, holding a pink shirt in his hands. “D’you like her?” he asks, suddenly. He looks over his shoulder at Michael, and then back at his wardrobe, oddly afraid to meet his eyes. Michael goes over to the iPod dock and fiddles around with some settings, and then Flo Rida is blaring out and the awkward silence is broken.  
  
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, eventually. “I mean she’s hot, but we’ll see, won’t we?” He looks at the shirt in James’ hands. “If you wear that for the entire evening and get off with someone I will honestly pay you five pounds; that is an obscene colour.”  
  
“Done,” James grins, pulling it over his head.  
  


* * *

  
  
When they get to Zoë’s house, it’s like walking straight into a teenage TV series. Someone’s throwing up on the porch outside, there are two boys sharing a joint by the bikes, and a girl is leaning out of the upstairs window cackling like she’s just seen the funniest thing ever.  
  
“Right, vodka first, hellos later,” James says, steering Michael through the house with his hands on his shoulders. “And then I am going to steal a cigarette from you.”  
  
They get waylaid by Anne-Marie on the way, and once James has finished hugging her and apologising for not texting her to tell her he’d be at the party, Michael has mysteriously disappeared.  
  
“Oh, sorry, did I make you lose your date?” Anne-Marie smirks, and James punches her lightly on the arm. “I’m glad you’re here, though, didn’t fancy spending the whole evening just pissing about pretending to like people.” She rolls her eyes.  
  
“Yeah, I’m not so extremely keen on this place either,” James says blankly as someone he knows from his Latin class stumbles past them, blind drunk and laughing. He sort of wants to be in that state, though; he’s tired and annoyed and he doesn’t know why.  
  
At that moment, Michael reappears, Zoë standing behind him, with a bottle of vodka and four glasses. “Excellent,” he grins, and pulls James into the kitchen.  
  
“Hey,” Zoë says, tapping James on the shoulder, and pulls him into a one-armed hug. He was right - she is skinny. Almost painfully so. Her eyes seem big in her face, but sleepy, like she’s already high. “You excited for midnight?” she asks, smiling.  
  
“What - what’s happening at midnight?” James asks, craning his neck to look for Michael. He’s passed a shot of vodka instead, and Zoë seems delighted.  
  
“I’ve got a pool out back at the end of the garden --” she begins, but Michael interrupts her.  
  
“We were thinking of going skinny dipping,” he says, and tosses back his glass. “That,” he winces, “was strong.” He turns back to James. “You’d be up for that, right?”  
  
Anne-Marie laughs, pouring herself another shot of vodka. “I would,” she chips in, and fills James’ glass up when he’s finished it. “No cameras, yeah?” James can feel vodka burning down his throat, pooling hot in his stomach like a punch.  
  
“No cameras,” Zoë smiles. She knocks back another shot and pulls on James’ hand. “Dance with me?”  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s five minutes to midnight and Michael is so drunk he’s speaking German. Really awful German, if the way Zoë is giggling is any indication, or maybe it’s really scandalous German. James is leaning on Michael’s shoulder, trying not to throw up, and they’re all trying to make their way as quietly as possible to the pool out back. It’s one of those fancy affairs, James can make out, down a path and around a corner and hidden by a large hedge. Everything in his vision sways gently, like it’s made out of jelly.  
  
“We’ve only got a few more minutes,” Zoë hisses, already unzipping her dress and toeing off her heels. Michael pulls his shirt over his head, displacing James in the process, and stands at the edge of the pool as he undoes his jeans.  
  
“C’mon, are you ok?” he asks James.  
  
“Drunk, and going swimming,” James says, slurring slightly. “This is a sure-fire winner.”  
  
“I’ll save you,” Michael sing-songs, and then steps forward and tugs at the hem of James’ shirt. It’s off in an eye-blink, so they’re standing face to face and shirtless. James can’t stop staring at the line of Michael’s collarbone. He can still feel the press of Michael’s palms against his chest.  
  
“Two minutes,” Anne-Marie stage-whispers, and Michael undoes James’ jeans. He moves away, turning towards the pool, and slides his boxers off his hips. Out of the corner of his eye, James can see the dark shapes of Zoë and Anne-Marie jumping into the pool, trying not to giggle too loudly, so he kicks his jeans off and stuffs his pants in one pocket before getting in.  
  
The water is freezing. James gasps for breath as soon as his head breaks the surface, and he can hear someone shouting. It sounds suspiciously like  _Happy Motherfucking New Year!_  He laughs, inhaling water, and then someone’s kissing him, messy and almost painful.  
  
“And here’s to a very gay two thousand and ten,” Zoë whoops, “and I mean gay in all senses of the word!”  
  
“The fuck?” James splutters. “Who was that?” He can hear Anne-Marie laughing hysterically, and then it dawns on him that he has Michael’s arm around his shoulders. He has Michael’s side pressed up against his as they tread water, Michael’s fingernails digging into the skin of his upper arm.  
  
“Surprise!” Michael grins, pressing his forehead against James’ for a second, and James sort of wants to punch him. “C’mon, I’m freezing my balls off, let’s get out.”  
  
James gets dressed and tries to act like his best friend didn’t just kiss him at midnight on New Year’s. It’s not a big deal.  
  
“Oi, wait a second,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head. Michael turns around, his face hardly visible in the dark. “You owe me five quid.”  
  
“What?” Michael frowns, and then notices the shirt. “Oh-ho, very clever, young McAvoy. I’ll pay you in alcohol, yeah?”  
  
“That is the worst and best idea I’ve heard this year,” James says, seriously.  
  


**iv. spring 2010.**

  
  
The library is oddly chilly. James rolls up his sleeves anyway, sitting down to reread  _Heart of Darkness_. He has an essay to write, after all, even if concentrating seems like an impossible task. Voices float through one of the open windows, and he looks up to see Michael and Zoë walking past, talking intently about something. Zoë smiles, and Michael does a mock bow.  
  
James isn’t jealous, exactly. It’s just that he and Michael talked once about girls and going out, and Michael had sort of dismissed the whole thing with a wave of his hand. “Friends with benefits, that’s the way to go. Or even acquaintances with benefits. Relationships require too much work, too much thinking about the other person. You don’t have just your own shit to deal with anymore - you’ve got their shit, and then the relationship shit too.”  
  
So James had sort of assumed that Michael would continue to coast his way through sixth form the way he had for all the time James had known him.  
  
But then there was Zoë. James feels bad for feeling angry - why was he angry, anyway? - but he can’t shake the nagging spike of betrayal that hangs around. It wasn’t as if Michael had said “no relationships, ever”. James isn’t even sure if he’s going out with Zoë; he’s pretty sure they’ve slept together, but that’s just another thing that he and Michael haven’t talked about.  
  
They pass out of sight, and James looks back down at his open book. If only people were as easy to analyse as the written word. He’d be able to make shit up and still get it marked as “an interesting interpretation” instead of just plain wrong.  
  


* * *

  
  
That evening he finds himself walking home alone again. Michael is at football training, and James can’t be bothered to wait an hour and a half just so they can walk home together. He sticks his hands deep into his jacket pockets, breathing in the cold air gratefully. If Michael was with him he’d probably be smoking. So he should really be grateful for the fresh air, only -  
  
“Mind if I join you?” Anne-Marie appears seemingly out of nowhere, and James almost jumps.  
  
“Jesus, you move quietly!” he laughs, and she blushes slightly.  
  
“You were very deep in thought, it seemed,” she shrugs. James turns away and continues walking.  
  
“Do you live this way?” he asks, after a few minutes of silence.  
  
“No, I just thought I’d waste half an hour walking the wrong way,” she replies, rolling her eyes. When he pulls a face she grins and amends her sentence. “I go on a little further than you, I think. I’ve seen you sometimes when I take the bus,” she adds, when James shoots a look at her. “Sorry, however much you might want me to be, I’m not your stalker.”  
  
“I was just beginning to wonder,” he teases. He likes Anne-Marie; they’ve not been friends for too long, but she’s easy company, intelligent and good-looking. She doesn’t prattle on endlessly, either - she understands the importance of silence, and how it can mean more than conversation sometimes.  
  
“Oh, hey, I wanted to play you something,” she says abruptly, and pulls out her iPod, handing him one of the earbuds. They walk along in the faint sunlight, listening to a band she tells him is called The Antlers. It’s haunting music, perfect for the day, and James is almost reluctant to leave when they reach his road.  
  
“Thanks,” he smiles, feeling awkward. “It was good to talk to you.”  
  
“We didn’t do much talking,” she laughs. The light catches her hair, and she looks mischievous and happy. “But that’s cool, I get the feeling you only really talk when you’re drunk.” A pause. “Or to Michael.” James blinks and looks away. “Are you guys ok, by the way?” she asks, nudging him with her elbow, her hands in her pockets.  
  
“Mmm,” James nods, “we’re fine, why?”  
  
“You don’t sound so sure about that,” Anne-Marie says, frowning. “You guys used to spend like... every hour of every day together, I swear.”  
  
“I’m busy, he’s busy,” James shrugs. “He has a life.”  
  
“And I’m sure I’m keeping you from yours,” Anne-Marie nods, looking at her watch. “Fuck, I’m going to be late for baby-sitting.” She pulls a face, and then leans in and kisses his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
She’s gone before he can reply, and he walks home with the phantom feel of her lips on his cheek, so close to his mouth.  
  
James has kissed girls before, mostly while both of them were drunk, but he’s not exactly a great ‘player’. It’s not that he doesn’t want to - it’s just that the opportunity has never arisen.  
  
He realises, suddenly, that he and Michael have never talked about that, either.  
  


** v. summer 2010. **

  
  
The clacking of the keyboard seems unnaturally loud. James stares at his UCAS page and sighs. He has no idea what he’s doing – his teacher had said something about setting up the page and then having a look at possible courses he might be interested in doing, but now he’s sitting in front of the screen he can’t remember a single thing he actually wants to study.  
  
“James,” someone whispers. James doesn’t look around. Outside the library the sun is shining. He is seventeen and he has no idea what he wants to do with his life.  
  
A paper ball hits the side of his head. When he turns around, Michael is making odd flailing movements with his hands. “What?” James mouths.  
  
“Bored as fuck,” Michael mouths back. “Entertain me.”  
  
James rolls his eyes and looks back at his computer. A few minutes later the girl sitting next to him is politely but firmly asked to move by the librarian, and Michael slides neatly into the seat.  
  
“What just happened? Did you - ?” James frowns, and Michael shrugs easily.  
  
“She was eating in the library. That is strictly not allowed,” he grins, leaning one elbow on the table. James shakes his head. “Anyway, are you actually bothering with this UCAS shit? We don’t have to worry about it till September.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you know what you want to do, and I don’t,” James sighs. The librarian walks past and shushes them loudly. James taps his fingers on the keyboard for a moment, and Michael pretends to be logging into his email. “What did you decide on, eventually?”  
  
“Oh, I was thinking about doing English,” Michael says, chewing on the lid of a biro.  
  
“Good luck paying any of your bills, ever,” James sighs, but on a whim he clicks on the links for English courses as well. He’s not sure he wants to go to Oxford, but he knows places like York and Durham are good for just about any course.  
  
“Yes, well, all that’s required is for me to knock out one good book and I’ll coast on my success for the rest of my short, beautiful life,” Michael grins, and spins on his chair, coming to a stop with his back to James. He leans back and rests his head on James’ shoulder; the angle must be awkward, but he doesn’t move.  
  
“Go and read a book,” James sighs.  
  
“I’ve read a book today,” Michael replies.  
  
“How about another? More is more, as they say.”  
  
“Or I could sit here and bother you.”  
  
“Or you could sit here and bother me.”  
  
They say nothing for a few minutes. James looks at the grade requirements for York and pulls a face. He could make it, easy, but the fact still remains whether he actually wants to do English.  
  
“What are you doing for lunch?” Michael moves and spins on his chair so he’s facing James again.  
  
“What? Oh - I’m going to the park with Anne-Marie,” James replies, absently, and then mentally checks himself. What did he just say? He looks at Michael, who seems almost as stunned as he is.  
  
“Are you - are you going out with her?” Michael says, very quietly.  
  
“Yeah,” James replies, doing an odd shrug. “I guess. We haven’t talked about it, really, but it’s sort of an unspoken thing.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Michael spits out, and then slouches back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He looks almost angry for a second, and then he moves again, all nervous energy. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“We had AS exams,” James shrugs, “and then you were busy with Zoë, and it just never came up till now.” Truthfully this is the longest he’s spoken to Michael in about a month, and it’s only because they’ve been herded back into school to start the A2 course in preparation for the next year. No one’s really working and half the year has begged off to be allowed to go on holiday, so James’ classes have only around six people in each.  
  
Michael’s annoyance seems to dissipate. “Probably good that you told me now,” he shrugs, and leans closer. “I’m going away for the summer. With my parents.”  
  
James’ stomach clenches oddly. He sort of expected this - GCSE summer was special, but Michael usually goes away with his parents every holiday at some point. “How long for?” he asks, trying to keep it light.  
  
“The whole thing,” Michael says, quietly. “I’m coming back literally the day before we start school again.”  
  
“Right,” James nods, staring at his computer screen. The letters in UCAS blur together in front of his eyes. He feels tired, like he just found out someone was lying to him about something he cared about impossibly much. Only, no one’s lied to him, and he doesn’t really know why he’s upset. “Right.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“You gonna be alright without me?” Michael jokes, sitting on James’ front wall. He’s dyed his hair blond for the summer; it makes him look American, maybe, with his strong jaw and broad shoulders. He’s taller than James now, too.  
  
“I think I’ll survive,” James grins, hands in his pockets. “I’ve got a job for a month or so anyway.”  
  
“Are you going to Reading?” Michael asks, leaning back on his hands.  
  
“No, I was thinking of just hanging around London this summer. The big three month holiday after A2 will be pretty massive, anyway.”  
  
Michael kicks his feet listlessly against the brick wall. James watches him move, the easy play of sunlight on his bare arms and ankles, and wonders what Michael will look like when he comes back. Two months away from one another. Quite possibly anything could happen. He feels exhilarated, scared, like he’s at the top of a rollercoaster and can’t get out before the drop. Michael checks his watch and swears, sliding down and pulling his jeans up quickly. James catches the make of his underwear on the elastic band - Calvin Klein - and draws his eyes away.  
  
“I have to go or Mum’ll flip out, we’ve got to leave in like, ten minutes or something.” Michael runs a hand through his hair - he’s nervous, James realises. He feels vindictively pleased. He wonders how Michael said goodbye to Zoë. They didn’t talk at all for the last week of school, he noticed, and wonders what happened there.  
  
“I’ll see you, then,” he nods. Michael pauses a moment, and then surges forward and hugs James tightly. James can’t breathe. He clings to Michael’s t-shirt, breathes him in, and then lets go.  
  
“Try not to break anything while I’m gone,” Michael calls over his shoulder, and then he’s out of sight.  
  


**vi. autumn 2010.**

  
  
It’s eight a.m in the morning, and James is smoking a cigarette at the end of his road, hoping beyond hope that no one he knows is going to see him. The one good thing about having money from his summer job is that he’s not stripped for cash; the bad thing is it’s really not helping his health. He exhales and taps ash onto the ground, clenching and unclenching his jaw.  
  
“Oh-ho, someone picked up bad habits while I was away.” James freezes, and suddenly he’s being barrelled into by six foot of tan, lean Michael Fassbender. “Fuck, you’re taller, what did you do, eat a cow?” Michael laughs, and James drops his cigarette to hug him back.  
  
“Look at yourself, wanker, what did they do to you in those foreign climes?” he grins, and Michael ruffles his hair, fingers lingering on James’ scalp.  
  
"I've got a surprise," Michael says, and steers James down the road. They jog to Michael's house, and James can't stop looking at Michael, the lines of him, his eyes, his hair, the way his shirt clings to the small of his back. Michael looks back at him, and neither of them can stop smiling. Fuck, James missed him. He didn't know how much until he saw him.  
  
Actually, that's a lie. He knew exactly how much he missed him, felt it every day, felt it even worse on results day and in the week leading up to today. Felt it while he looked around universities, wondering what Michael would be doing in a year’s time. It’s been almost two months without contact. James' mouth aches with smiling; he wants to be angry with Michael, but the point is he can't be. Michael makes it impossible to be angry with him for any length of time, no matter if you're the headmaster or a kid on the same bus. Just like that, whatever James was angry with him about seems not to matter anymore.  
  
They get to Michael's house, and there in the driveway is a Vespa. James laughs without meaning to, taking deep breaths, and Michael throws him a helmet, grinning.  
  
"This is yours?" James asks, bemused.  
  
"Every inch. Hey, don't knock her, Jillian's a good girl, even if I am a terror behind the wheel," Michael replies defensively, pulling on his helmet and getting on the bike. "Hurry up, would you?"  
  
James has grave misgivings about this, but he pulls on his helmet and squeezes onto the seat behind Michael. "I feel like I'm in a French film," he mumbles, and then yelps as they move off.  
  
"Hang on," Michael yells, and James clutches onto him, his bag pressed uncomfortably into his back. They veer perilously across the road until Michael appears to have full control, and then zoom off to school. James feels giddy, sticking his legs out and laughing. They must look ridiculous, he thinks, and god, he wouldn't have it any other way.  
  
Once Michael has parked outside the school and secured the scooter, they make their way back into the school campus. "Oh, one more thing," Michael says, fishing in his bag. James hardly hears him; his skin is still tingling from the chill morning air, burning warm and cold on the backs of his wrists and the crooks of his elbows where he was pressed up tight against Michael.  
  
"You never --" he exclaims, as Michael produces a pack of strawberry pencils. "You are quite possibly my favourite person in the whole world right now," he says seriously, taking one of the sweets. Michael chews on the end of one and grins.  
  
"I know," he replies, smugly, and nudges James shoulder with his own. "Do you know what room you're in for registration?"  
  
They make their way over to the big blue noticeboard; they're not in the same registration form, but they hang around in the common room with Zoë (still slim and tiny), Anne-Marie, and a couple of guys James is on good terms with from his classes. When the bell rings James leaves reluctantly, already feeling the loss of Michael by his side, and is waylaid just outside his form room by Nicholas Hoult. They were good friends in the last year of GCSE but lost contact after that, and James is glad of the conversation. It feels good, like things are settling back to normal again, finally.  
  
The first week turns out to be so busy that James doesn't have time for adjusting to anything like his previous normal routine. If he's not frantically writing his personal statement then he's auditioning for the sixth form play -  _Dangerous Liasons_  - or trying to decide if he wants to resit one of his English exams. He decides not to bother in the end. His grades were good enough to get into just about anywhere, anyway.  
  
With everything going on, it's quite easy to get back into a familiar rhythm with Michael again. They hang out in the common room, where Michael rages about Kant and how tired he is of him and James pretends to listen while lying on the sofa, they eat lunch at the tiny corner cafe which does hideously cheap sandwiches and terrify the rest of the populace with their hysterical laughter, and they get to school each morning on Jillian, trying not to get killed in the process. It feels easy, good.  
  
Two weeks into term, James' grandparents go away to see some old friends, so Michael decides to stay over for the weekend.  
  
"It's going to be great," he informs James, falling onto the common room sofa and landing with his head on James' stomach, knocking the breath out of him. "We can braid each other's hair and swap stories about blowjobs." He blinks up at James in an exaggerated fashion. Anne-Marie snorts and gets up to talk to a girl James knows vaguely as January, who runs the student council.  
  
"I'll call you later,' she says, kissing James on the cheek and walking away.  
  
Michael hums the tune to "Puppy Love" and pretends to be reading Steppenwolf.  
  
"Rich coming from you," James mutters, amused despite himself. Michael moves his head, pressing down painfully on James' stomach, and grins.  
  


* * *

  
  
As it turns out, they end up on James' sofa later that evening, watching Hot Fuzz and throwing corn chips aimlessly at one another.  
  
"So," Michael says, abruptly, "did you sleep with Anne-Marie?"  
  
James shrugs. "Yeah."  
  
"Yeah? And?" Michael grins, poking James' leg with his foot. They're lying top to toe on the sofa, necks craned uncomfortably towards the TV, but James feels like it'd be more uncomfortable to look at Michael. "Oh come on, I want  _all_  the gory details," he cajoles, and James sighs.  
  
"Fine," he says, wearily. "It was ok. Like, I think it was just awkward for her, she was kinda more enthusiastic about it before than while we were doing it."  
  
"She not enjoy it?"  
  
"Well it was her first time; I don't think most girls do on their first time." James shifts on the sofa and ends up with Michael's calf by his face.  
  
"I guess," Michael nods. He throws another chip at James, who catches it in his mouth. "Nice. Well, anything else?"  
  
"I think she wants to break up," James admits. "I'm not particularly bothered -- it feels like neither of us is really...into the whole thing."  
  
"Keep her on as a friend with benefits?"  
  
James wrinkles his nose and turns to look at Michael. He realises Michael's been watching him while they were talking; it sends a spark down his spine. "What, like you and Zoë?" he replies, unkindly, because now he just feels awkward.  
  
"Exactly like me and Zoë," Michael nods. "You both know where you stand, you only want the physical: it’s s win-win situation." He sits up and takes a sip of water.  
  
"How do you do that?" James frowns. "Separate yourself so easily?"  
  
"Maybe there's nothing to separate." Michael looks blank, like he's deliberately keeping a poker face.  
  
"Bullshit," James shakes his head. "I don't think you ever really cared about Zoë, actually - I think there's someone else, and you won't admit it, so you're distracting yourself and your dick with Zoë because she likes you and she's a nice person."  
  
"Zoë is many things, but she's not the kind of person who'd go along with something like that," Michael shoots back, and then realises what he's said. "Even supposing that was true."  
  
"Are you even sleeping with her anymore?" James asks, incredulous.  
  
There's a painful silence, broken only by the sound of the film.  
  
"No," Michael snaps, eventually.  
  
They don't talk about it for the rest of the weekend.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Good book?" James asks, poking Michael with his pen, as January walks through the common room door and sits down next to Anne-Marie, pulling out a notebook and some leaflets. James remembers vaguely that they're planning the sixth form prom for the end of exams. It’s Tuesday, and Michael has finally gone back to his own house - he decided to stay for Sunday night and most of Monday, which James sort of appreciated, in an odd way.  
  
"Excellent, actually," Michael smiles, looking at the cover and then up at James. "Thank you, sweetheart."  
  
January grins. "I'm surprised no one has complained yet of being crushed by the overwhelming sucrose sweetness of your relationship," she teases, nudging Anne-Marie.  
  
"Of course not, I love my boyfriend. And I love my boyfriend's boyfriend," Anne-Marie says, turning the page of her book.  
  
"Darling, I think our secret is out," Michael frowns, sweeping a strand of James' hair out of his face.  
  
"Well, now is a good time to discuss a name for us, then," James interjects, tapping his chin. "Boyvander? McAbender? Fassavoy?"  
  
"I like Fassavoy," Michael says thoughtfully, opening  _Out of Africa_. He's already halfway through, James notes. Michael once said that he never bothered to read until he was eleven, so now he devours as many books as he can - making up for lost time.  
  
"Really? I'll make sure to let the engravers know," murmurs James, nestling back into the sofa and shutting his eyes. Dropping Latin means he has more frees, but his workload still seems obscene, so he ends up spending many of his frees napping in the common room.  
  
“I don’t know whether to be fascinated or disgusted,” January muses, and James opens his eyes to catch Michael sending her a look that is both bemused and pitying.  
  
“Be jealous,” he says, “the love I have for James is pure and unyielding.”  
  
“Sure,” January nods. “You don’t want to bone him at all.”

 

* * *

 

** vii. halloween 2010. **

  
  
The school’s sixth form play,  _Dangerous Liasons_ , goes exceptionally well. James only has a small role, not too many lines, which is exactly what he wanted ever since he decided Drama really wasn’t for him. Michael comes along to one of the performances, and then gives James a ride home on the Vespa, complaining all the time through his helmet about how he has way too much Maths homework. James makes noises of agreement, then goes straight to bed and sleeps for a whole day.  
  
They go to two Halloween parties.  
  
James doesn’t remember much of either of them, except glow in the dark paint and Michael’s arm around his shoulders.  
  


** viii. christmas 2010. **

  
  
James wakes up on Christmas morning with a sore head and Michael Fassbender lying across the end of his bed, covered in a mohair rug. Snoring. He pushes him with his foot and roots around in a drawer for a painkiller. He swallows it dry, then sits on Michael's thighs and prods him.  
  
"Merry fucking Christmas," Michael mutters, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I may throw up."  
  
"Charming," James replies, reaching over and picking up a wrapped package. "This is for you."  
  
"Well if the hangover doesn't make me ill, the tenderness of this moment may well," Michael moans, but he looks pleased nonetheless as the starts unwrapping it.  
  
"What d'you think?" James asks, grinning.  
  
"I think you must really have missed me over summer," Michael replies, leavering himself up onto his elbows. He looks at the book in his hand. It’s  _Divisadero_ , by Michael Ondaatje. "This is amazing, thank you."  
  
"Supposed to be good," James muses.  
  
"D'you think," Michael offers, after a minute, "I could have my legs back?"  
  
"Oh, right - sorry," James splutters, climbing off him and sitting on the bed. Michael grins, leaning off the bed and reaching into his bag. He hands James a present of his own.  
  
"Thanks for letting me stay, by the way," Michael says, lying down again as James unwraps the gift.  
  
"No trouble, really - I swear by now you know how much Gram loves you." He pulls off the last of the wrapping and laughs, delighted. "This is amazing, seriously. God. Wow." He laughs, stunned.  
  
It's seasons one and two of  _Black Books_  - he's watched them obsessively on 4od, but never got round to buying them. He mentioned it once or twice in passing to Michael, but they've only ever watched football or the Simpsons together, apart from the time Michael was obsessed with  _Battlestar Galactica_  and forced James to watch with him. So for him to remember -  
  
"James, Michael? Are you up?" Gram calls through the door, knocking gently. James shoves the painkillers and a shirt into Michael's hands, grinning, and goes downstairs to help with laying the table.  
  
That evening, lying on the living room floor with an old Bond movie on the TV, Michael passes James a blanket and sprawls out on his back, moaning. "So much food, I might die."  
  
"I know, oh my god," James sighs, and pulls the blanket over both of them. Gram walks past on her way to bed, her thin shoulders wrapped up in huge knit sweater.  
  
"Do you want some cocoa?" she asks.  
  
"No more food or drink ever, please, spare me," James begs.  
  
"Man up," Michael laughs. "I'd love one, please, if that's alright?"  
  
Gram smiles and disappears into the kitchen, reappearing a few minutes later with a steaming mug of cocoa which she sets down on the coffee table. "Don't stay up too late," she warns, before she leaves to go to bed.  
  
Pierce Brosnan saunters across the screen and James struggles to stay awake. "I hate him," Michael sighs, and takes a sip of cocoa. James leans across and tips the cup his way, managing to get a mouthful before Michael notices. "Hey - just what d'you think you're doing?"  
  
"Manning up," James grins.  
  
They doze in front of the TV, interrupted only when James' Gramps shuffles through to make himself something to drink. It's nearly midnight and James is half asleep, watching Halle Berry absail in through the roof whilst wearing leather. "Man, if every person had the power to be that sexy, the world would be a great place," he murmurs.  
  
"No, seriously? Halle Berry sexiness? Of all the superpowers you could choose?" Michael gapes. "What about, like - the power to be able to change gender at will?"  
  
"That would be pretty good; I would not turn down the ability to have breasts at will - getting drinks would be easier," James agrees. "Maybe the power to... Out of ideas."  
  
Michael sighs, amused. "Having a tail would be cool," he murmurs. "I could hold a lemonade while I was typing, y'know. It'd be useful." He grins, and James bites his lip to stop from snorting with laughter.  
  
"How selfish. How about the power to fly? Or make people fall in love?" James offers. "Or both at once? We could fly around the world and cause world peace, it would be amazing."  
  
"Now you're talking," Michael nods, rolling over so he's sprawled over James' side. "Now hold still, you're more comfortable than the floor."  
  
"Sofa," James sing-songs. Michael isn't too heavy, though, and he's warm, a familiar heat.  
  
"Too far away." Michael sighs. "Y'know, I'm kinda happy my parents went away."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. They should stay in Ireland and I can live here with your grandmother, the only woman who truly appreciates me."  
  


* * *

  
  
Zoë's house is just as hectic as the last New Year's Eve. Michael steps gingerly over a girl from their Classical Civilisation class and finds them a bottle of red wine. They head back outside, and Michael rolls them a joint, squatting with his back against the wall, while James pours them each a plastic cup of wine.  
  
"Wow," he says, sarcasm evident, "high motherfucking class right here." It feels like an abrupt change, after weeks of sitting around at home doing work and reading stuff he can talk about in his interviews for university.  
  
Michael grins, clicking his lighter and inhaling deeply. He holds the smoke in and then exhales and passes the joint to James. "Ooh, good wine," he jokes, downing half the cup in one.  
  
They spend a while finishing the joint and drinking wine, saying hi to people from school and occasionally sharing a drink, and then Zoë appears out of nowhere. James suddenly realises he hasn't talked to Anne-Marie in a week - he hasn't even checked his phone.  
  
"Fuck - I'll be back, I've gotta go find --" he stumbles off, leaving Zoë to deal with Michael. It doesn't take him long to find Anne-Marie - she's sitting on the kitchen counter, doing tequila shots and laughing. She smiles when she sees him, kissing him on the cheek, and offers him a shot.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asks, bemused.  
  
"Fine! I'm sorry I haven't called, my parents have been really clingy lately," she grins, and kisses him again. "I missed you, though."  
  
"Yeah, I missed you too," he says against her mouth, and then does another shot. He’s missed her conversation, her ridiculous flights of fancy. And he hasn’t talked to anyone else from school since the holidays began, either.  
  
It's about quarter to twelve when Michael joins them in the kitchen. "You look a little worse for wear," he grins, leaning heavily against James' shoulder. He's tall, James realises again. And sort of really gorgeous. Michael shoots him an odd look and puts his hand over James' mouth. "No more for him or he'll drown," he tells Zoë, who looks very amused. James allows himself to be manhandled out of the kitchen along with Anne-Marie, Michael and Zoë, and realises where they're going.  
  
“Are we doing a repeat of last New Year’s Eve again?” he slurs, and Michael makes a noise of agreement, his arm strong around James’ shoulders.  
  
Sure enough, they get to the pool, and James struggles out of his shirt, flailing his arms and catching Michael lightly on the jaw. "Ow, Jesus, McAvoy, watch it," Michael grouses, pulling James' shirt off and undoing his jeans. James has a severe moment of déjà-vu and giggles to himself, and then suddenly he's naked, standing by the edge of the pool. Michael's right next to him, saying something, and James misses his footing, falling in and almost choking on freezing cold water. He thrashes underwater, trying not to breathe in, but everything is dark and uncertain.  
  
There are hands under his armpits, and James gasps for breath as his head breaks the surface. "James! James, are you ok?" Michael's shouting, and James splutters and coughs.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he gasps, clinging to the side of the pool. “Alcohol and deep water, I think I’ve said before what a winning combination it is?” Water splashes into his face, and Zoë surfaces next to him, blinking and wiping her fringe off her face.  
  
"Try not to drown," she says, absently, and kicks away from the side of the pool to float on her back. James stares at the lines of her thighs and the small bumps of her breasts in the dim light of the underwater pool lights. He can't really see why Michael finds her sexy.  
  
"Stop talking," Michael hisses in his ear. "You're saying really weird things tonight."  
  
"What?" James frowns.  
  
"Two minutes," Anne-Marie sing-songs, splashing water at Zoë. No one else seems to have noticed his audible stream of consciousness. James leans against the pool wall and breathes deeply, looking up at the stars.  
  
"Ten, nine, eight," people start shouting in the house, and James look at Michael. He knows what's going to happen, knows Michael's thinking the same thing, and it terrifies him and thrills him at the same time.  
  
"Five, four, three, two -"  
  
Michael kisses him, hard and almost painful. Déjà-vu again. He leans in close, and James jolts. He can feel every inch of Michael against him, the press of his dick against James’ hip and the heat of his hands on his neck.  
  
He pulls away before he wants to, ducking under the water and swimming away, blocking out the noise of people shouting and celebrating, and when he comes up for air again Michael's gone, and it's just him and Zoë in the pool. She swims over to the side and slips out of the water, pulling a large t-shirt over her head. It sticks to her, turning see-through over her breasts.  
  
"Is everything ok?" she asks, handing him his jeans as he gets out. He dresses self-consciously, but Zoë doesn't watch.  
  
"Yeah, fine, why?"  
  
"You and Michael seem to be doing this odd dance around each other," she shrugs. "Like, you move together so well, and then you fly apart and it's awkward for weeks. Like you will now." She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him. "But you always come back to each other. Like moon and tide."  
  
"That's very philosophical for New Year's," James frowns, pulling on his shirt. Zoë stands up and pulls on her skirt, pushing her wet hair out of her face. She hops on one foot, trying to pull on her thigh high stockings.  
  
"The way I see it," Zoë frowns, "if there is someone who's there for you no matter what, you should hang on to them.” She wipes a droplet of water off his chin and turns away. “And that's not even philosophical."  
  
"Well, thanks," James murmurs, and he and Zoë make their way back to the house, barefoot and damp.  
  


* * *

  
  
On January the second, James buys Anne-Marie coffee in a tiny corner shop and sits down opposite her. She looks very pale.  
  
"I don't think this is working," he says, quietly, tracing the lid of her coffee cup. "I want it to, but I don't think I'm -- ready. That sounds stupid, but I'm not the right kind of person, yet."  
  
"This sucks," she sighs, after a long pause. "I can't even hate you for being a dick because you're being so... nice." She laughs hollowly, and swallows a large gulp of coffee. "I'm glad you told me, though. I'll miss you - but you're right. We weren’t really a couple in the true sense of word, y’know? We never really hung out. I’m not saying we should have, though, it probably just would have made this all... worse."  
  
"I'm sorry," James adds, and she laughs properly this time.  
  
"As long as you don't take me drunkenly coming on to you at parties the wrong way, I'm sure we'll be fine," she tells him. “Just because it’s not working out doesn’t mean I can’t still find you attractive, right?”  
  
“That goes both ways,” he nods.  
  
He knew he liked her for a reason.  
  
 ****

** ix. february 2011. **

  
On the first Saturday of the February half term, James staggers home at 3 a.m. and tries to slip into bed as quietly as possible. He feels hollowed out and lit up, like a Halloween pumpkin put out for display, his skin glowing from within. Sleep evades him, despite help from Stephen Fry's narration of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. At 4 a.m. he pulls his headphones off, frustrated, and stares at the sloping ceiling of his attic room. There's a dent in it from where Michael once stayed over and threw a golf ball at the ceiling.  
  
Michael. Even two months later, late at night James can't shake the phantom feel of Michael's body against his, the stark contrast between the heat of him and the ice cold pull of the pool water on New Year’s Eve. Even now it makes him flush with -- with what? Is he embarrassed? Or just caught off guard? James hasn't really had any experience with guys, doesn't know how to read Michael's body language or anything. When he'd got back to the house with Zoë he'd heard some girl shouting to her friends that she'd just seen Michael getting off with another girl, so James had just assumed it was a New Year's tradition, suddenly, this odd naked kiss in the pool.  
  
But then tonight Michael had hugged him goodbye, so drunk James was sort of impressed he was still standing, and his lips ghosted over the curve of James' neck.  
  
The memory makes James shiver. He can feel goose-bumps break out on his arms, and the press of his dick against his boxers is unmistakable. When did that happen? He rolls over onto his side, his hands sweating, and tries to regulate his breathing.  
  
He gives up after a few moments, pulling his boxers off his hips and kicking them away. His cock juts away from him, angry red at the head, and James fumbles for the jar of Vaseline on his bedside table. Touching himself feels odd all over again, like it did the first time he jerked off, and it's probably because he's thinking of Michael's lips against his neck, his lush mouth. James wonders idly, in the detached way he does sometimes when he's jerking off and everything is sort of weirdly sexy, if he should be thinking of Michael's dick, of his broad shoulders and the curve of his ass. If he’s going to do the guy thing, he might as well do it properly.  
  
But the memory of Michael's mouth is all that sticks, holding fast as he shuts his eyes and thrusts lazily into his loose fist, the obscene sound of Vaseline against skin heavy in his ears. Michael's lips, the curve of them when he smirks, his breath on James' neck, just holding there, holding there, holding there --  
  
James bites his lip hard, tugs gently at his balls and feels his cock pulse in his hand. Release is almost painful; impossibly good, and then shatteringly tiring. He collapses against his pillows, panting, and reaches feebly for some tissues. The mess of Vaseline and come on his hands takes forever to get off, and his mind is blessedly empty as he cleans off.  
  
"You have a serious problem," he tells the ceiling.   
  


** x. easter 2011. **

  
  
“I got into Durham and York,” James says, conversationally.  
  
“Congrats,” Michael replies, reaching over his head to pat James on the face. He misses horribly and nearly takes James’ eye out.  
  
“Watch it,” James laughs. “As if the sun wasn’t blinding enough.”  
  
They’re lying on the green, trying to revise. It’s nearly Easter, and James is trying to think of a late birthday present for Michael. They’re having a joint party, what with their birthdays being so close, but neither of them can really bothered to plan anything, so what started out as a good idea has turned into buying a lot of vodka and beer and trying not to throw up over whoever’s house they end up in. Probably Michael’s. His parents never seem to be around anymore.  
  
“What’s your first choice, though?” Michael asks, lazily.  
  
“Durham, I think,” James tells him. “I liked it best when I was looking around.”  
  
“I preferred York.” Michael shifts and hums a tune, stopping abruptly. “I got in.”  
  
“Oh, hey, well played,” grins James. “How come you didn’t say?”  
  
“I just did, and anyway I only found out today.” He pauses. “I’ve not told my parents yet. They’re still sort of angry that I didn’t even consider Oxford or Cambridge.” He laughs, a short, bitter noise, and then is silent.  
  
“Oxford seemed kind of -- unwelcoming,” James admits. “I didn’t like it at all.”  
  
“That makes two of us.” Michael bats at his face again without looking and James bites his fingers.  
  


* * *

  
  
Later that day, James ends up in Waterstones, trying to find a good book for Michael’s present. He bypasses Palahniuk - too heavy for a birthday present - and ends up standing in front of the Coelho shelf, staring at the beautiful volumes. He turns, and something catches his eye.  
  
“This is a great book,” the girl at the till says, handling it with care. She smiles at him. Her name tag says  _Eliza_. “For someone special?”  
  
“Yeah,” James replies automatically, and then double takes. Eliza laughs, takes the ten pound note he gives her, and hands back the change, putting the book into a decorated brown paper bag.  
  
“We usually charge for these,” she shrugs, “but you must really like whoever this is for, so. Have a nice day.”  
  
“Thank you, you too,” James nods, and leaves before he can think too hard about what he just realised.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was almost anti-climatic when Zoë suggested they just use her house for the party. Neither James nor Michael had better ideas, so they went ahead, although James wondered just why exactly her parents allowed her to have so many parties, especially when most of them seemed to end with vomit in the hallway and someone having sex loudly in the upstairs bathroom. But if the way Zoë shrugged these things off was any indication, then her parents were pretty fine with the whole thing.  
  
Before they head off to Zoë’s house, James goes to Michael’s to give him his present. Michael’s mum lets him in, but neglects to tell him Michael’s in the shower, so James sits awkwardly on his bed for a while and waits. The whole room smells of smoke and slightly of aftershave - both Michael’s parents are smokers, too - but it’s fastidiously tidy, which is unusual. James checks under the bed, and sure enough, finds Michael’s tin of weed. It’s good to know some things never change, at least.  
  
The door opens abruptly and James sits up, feeling guilty.  
  
“Oh, hey,” Michael says, breaking out into a grin. “I just got out of the shower.”  
  
“I noticed,” James replies, deadpan. Michael still has a towel around his waist and his skin is damp, beads of water on his chest and neck. He is surprisingly well toned as well, James realises. “Have you been working out or something?” he asks, bemused.  
  
“It’s the rugby training,” Michael shrugs, walking over to his closet. He drops his towel with no warning and James’ neck nearly snaps with the speed at which he turns away. “They make us do all these ridiculous drills and by the end of it you can hardly walk, talk or breathe.”  
  
James makes an interested noise and waits for Michael to dress. “I brought you something, a sort of late birthday present,” he says to fill the silence.  
  
“Oh, you read my mind - I’ve got something for you too.” A package hits him in the shoulder and James yelps. “You should probably consider rugby training too...” Michael trails off, and then laughs. James turns around and passes him the brown paper bag. Michael still hasn’t bothered to put on a shirt, so he looks away and sets about opening his present.  
  
This time it’s  _Green Wing_. “Oh, this is amazing, you are a genius,” James sighs happily, but he stops talking suddenly when he looks up. Michael is staring at the book in his hands, looking like someone tore the bottom out of his world.  
  
“I’ve been looking for this book forever,” he says, very quietly. “How did you know I wanted it? I’ve never mentioned it or anything.” When he looks up his jaw is working furiously, a muscle clenching and then relaxing. His fingers run over the embossed title.  _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_.  
  
“You had it written on your hand,” James shrugs. “For like, a week. You really must not shower very oft - ” Michael hugs him so hard James can’t breathe.  
  
“Thanks,” he whispers, and James shivers slightly.  
  
“C’mon,” he clears his throat, “or we’ll be late to our own party.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The only problem with the night is that Zoë and Michael don’t talk. When James asks about it, Michael shakes his head, so James shrugs and leaves it be. He and Michael get stuck into the beer, and then someone suggests tequila shots and James knows he won’t remember most of the evening.  
  
He catches sight of Anne-Marie out of the corner of his eye, and she comes over to wish him happy birthday. “I brought you something,” she shouts, trying to be heard over the noise of the party, and James grins, delighted. “It’s a bottle opener, now you’re legally able to drink!”  
  
“Thank you, very considerate,” he shouts back, as she passes him the bottle opener. It’s in the shape of a crocodile, and comes with a key-ring.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she grins, and kisses his cheek before moving away. He catches her hand, and pulls her over to the sofa, trying to get across to her that he sort of really misses her.  
  
“Can we talk?” he asks.  
  
“I’m not sure you really want to talk,” she replies, looking uneasy.  
  
“I wanted to ask if you know why Zoë and Michael are sort of, y’know, not talking at the moment?”  
  
"You seriously don't know, do you?" Anne-Marie says, frowning, her mouth twisting.  
  
"Know what?" James asks, feeling drunk and dizzy.  
  
"Oh my god, you don't. You're so blind," she sighs, and turns away. "James McAvoy is fucking blind!" she shouts, and someone in the drunken rabble hoots and whoops.  
  
"What the fuck's going on?" James pushes, his hand tangled in her hair. She's gorgeous, she's fucking gorgeous, she's --  
  
James presses his mouth against hers and she lets him kiss her for a moment, and then pushes him away.  
  
"No, sweetheart, you don't wanna do that," she sighs, and then stiffens, looking over his shoulder. James knows exactly who he's going to see even as he looks, and sure enough, there's Michael, leaning on the door-frame with a half empty beer in his hand.  
  
"Am I interrupting?" he asks, grinning. James wants to punch him, snap the shit-eating grin off his face.  
  
"Oh, go right ahead," Anne-Marie snaps, pushing James away and climbing off the sofa. “I’m sure you two will have loads to talk about.” She stalks out past Michael, skirt riding up her slim thighs.  
  
"I just cock-blocked you, didn't I?" Michael smirks, coming over to the sofa. James rubs his hands over his face and stands up.  
  
"Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?" he asks, and it sounds sort of whiny even to his own ears.  
  
"What d'you mean?"  
  
James loses it. He grabs Michael's shoulder, forces him bodily into the bathroom and locks the door behind them. "What is going on?" he hisses, pushing Michael against the door. "She's never done that before, going on about how I don't know stuff and how I'm 'blind' and shit; this is driving me mad, and she flipped out when she saw you, and --"  
  
Michael kisses him, beer bottle smashing on the floor as he cups James' face in his hands. James freezes for a moment, then pulls away. The memory of the night when he jerked off thinking about Michael’s mouth comes rushing back, immobilising him.They stand in the stark light of the bathroom for a moment, panting.  
  
The first punch James throws catches Michael square on the jaw. He spits blood, looking murderous, and catches James' hands before he can do anything more, maneuvering them so James is against the sink, cold porcelain up against his lower back.  
  
"Is this what it's about?" James asks, scared out of his fucking mind - this is Michael. His best friend. His touchstone. This is four, five years of his life staring him in the face and saying,  _I kept a secret from you._  
  
"Yeah," Michael hisses, "this is what it's bloody well about." There's blood on his lips, and James feels like an utter dick. He has nothing to say, can't even think, so he kisses Michael. It's desperate, and he licks at the blood on his mouth, pleading silently for Michael to understand just how scared he is.  
  
"I've never," he whispers, pulling back so there's barely a hair's-breadth between their lips.  
  
"Neither," Michael replies, his hands still wrapped around James' wrists. They loosen slightly, and James takes the opportunity to shake them free and put his hands hesitantly on Michael's hips.  
  
"I really like her, Michael," he says, very quietly, and they kiss again. It's better this time, though he can feel Michael's stubble, the sharpness of his teeth where they catch against his tongue. But fuck, he's a good kisser; James sucks on his tongue, teases Michael into kissing him properly, and then changes the angle.  
  
"Yeah, well, I really like  _you_ ," Michael tells him, when they part for breath.  
  
Someone hammers on the door. "Fuckin' let me in, I gotta piss!" James’ stomach bottoms out. How do they get out of here without everyone realising they just got off in the bathroom?  
  
"Window," Michael whispers, and then he's across the room, opening the catch. James feels his absence like a punch to the gut and stumbles after him. Thank god it's a first floor bathroom, he thinks, as Michael helps him scramble out, and they sprint away down the road.  
  
James feels like he's flying, running through empty roads at midnight, the cool air parting around his body. He spreads his arms, laughing, and nearly falls when Michael catches his arm and pulls him in for a kiss, both of them stumbling in the street. They’re running away from their own party, and he doesn’t give a fuck.  
  
"Does this make it a love triangle?" James asks, after a while, as they walk down the road, shoulders bumping.  
  
"Square, more like," Michael snorts. "You're forgetting Zoë. Fuck, Zoë! I was supposed to get her a drink. Oh well. I don’t think either of us is actually... involved in anything else, so maybe this is just a love line." He shrugs. "D'you wanna stay over?"  
  
"Gram thinks I already am," James yawns, flexing his back.  
  
"This is such a shitshow," Michael grimaces, and then chuckles. "Don't know why I'm complaining, though - but I didn’t really plan on explaining things this way."  
  
"Complain all you like, I did punch you," James points out, and Michael shrugs.  
  
"I'd've done the same. It was sort of unexpected, I guess."  
  
"Can't have been - Anne-Marie knew something was up."  
  
"Oh," Michael says. "About that." He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, drawing his keys out of his pocket as they turn into his road.  
  
"Well?" James presses.  
  
"I may have been slightly rude to her recently," Michael admits, opening the door. He mimes for James to be quiet, and they tiptoe up the stairs to his room. As soon as the door's closed, he lets out a breath and shrugs off his leather jacket. There's a hole in the neck of his t-shirt, James notices. He sort of wants to kiss Michael's skin through it.  
  
"Slightly rude how?" he asks, to distract himself.  
  
"I don't know, just, y'know, my usual charming self." Michael sits down on his bed and toes off his boots, looking up at James through his eyelashes. "Overly frosty and sarcastic, I guess."  
  
"How did she know from that?" James frowns, taking off his own jacket.  
  
"How am I supposed to know?" Michael sighs, and rubs his forehead. "She knows you, though."  
  
"And what's that supposed to mean?" James feels too big for his skin, for the room, all itchy and warm.  
  
"Well, we spend a lot of time together. And - New Year's eve, stuff like that. I had a bit of an argument with Zoë about that - y’know, the whole, um, naked kiss thing. She said I was pussying out of talking to you about it." He looks uncertain of himself, James realises. Scared. That makes two of them. He sits down on the bed next to Michael and decides they can figure it out later.  
  
"So, where do I sleep - now?" he asks, and licks his suddenly very dry lips. He’s used to staying on the airbed that Michael keeps in the top of his wardrobe, but even though it’s out it hasn’t been blown up, and he doesn’t fancy waking Michael’s parents with the racket it makes.  
  
"Wherever you want," Michael replies, pulling off his shirt. James just looks, watches every inch of him, because now he can. Now he's allowed to; he never realised he'd stopped himself, or pushed the impulse down. Perhaps Anne-Marie was onto something. Perhaps Zoë was too.  
  
"Floor?" he jokes. "Sofa? Air-bed?"  
  
Michael leans over and kisses him, working open the buttons on James' shirt. "Normal bed?" he suggests, and James goes with him.  
  


* * *

  
  
James wakes up at seven the next morning and walks to the bathroom in his pants and one of Michael’s shirts. On the way he meets Michael’s dad, who looks about as awful as James feels.  
  
“Rough night, eh?” he jokes, and then clears his throat. James tries not to say,  _Well, sir, I just spent the better part of the night making out with your son on his bed. We were both too drunk to get any further, and now I have a horrific hangover and really need to pee._  
  
He says, “Something like that.”  
  
“Well, Michael’s mother and I are off to work now, so there’s eggs and bacon in the fridge and some orange juice as well. Have a good day. And, uh, try not to throw up in the bedroom, if you can?”  
  
He walks away and James makes his way to the bathroom, slightly confused. Looking in the mirror as he’s washing his hands when he’s finished, he notices the massive bite-mark on his neck. Well. That’s going to be fun to explain. James sighs, rubbing at his jaw, and returns to Michael’s bedroom.  
  
For once, Michael’s not snoring, and James watches him for a moment, the dim sunlight highlighting a patch of his lower back. The covers have ridden down so they’re wrapped around his hips, and he’s lying on his front, shirtless. It’s a nice view, James thinks. And perhaps now is that time he should be having his big gay freak-out, too, considering.  
  
But there doesn’t seem much to freak out about. Except for what a shit time they’ll get at school if anyone finds out - but James doesn’t think Michael’s really going to want to  _say_  anything. If they carry on the way they were before - excessive touching, odd jokes no one understands, etcetera - no one will notice, except themselves. Because it will be different. He rubs his eyes and wonders what Michael’s take on the whole thing will be. If  _he’s_  the one who’ll freak out. James isn’t sure he can deal with it, since Michael instigated it; but then, it almost feels like if Michael hadn’t done something, he would have had to. It doesn’t matter who acted first. This thing has been waiting to happen, as unstoppable as a tidal wave.  
  
James pulls back the covers a little more and gets into Michael’s bed. Michael makes a snuffling noise and shifts so he’s lying half on top of James. “Thought you’d gone home,” he mumbles into the pillow, eyes still shut and face pressed against James’ shoulder.  
  
“Nah,” James sighs, oddly content, “bathroom. Apparently there’s bacon and eggs waiting to be made and some orange juice.”  
  
“If I get up I’ll fall over; let’s wait a little longer,” Michael yawns.  
  


** xi. may 2011. **

  
  
The last day of school feels incredibly anti-climatic. They have morning lessons, in which no one does any work, say goodbyes to their teachers, and then end up having a brief assembly from the headmaster. James isn’t sorry to leave; he’s felt closed in by the school, and now he just wants out. He’s been waiting for this for so long that it hurts to stay static when all he wants to do is run ahead.  
  
A large group of people he knows go to the pub, and another to the local park, stopping on the way to buy beers and ciders from the local Sainsbury’s. James and Michael tag along, not really saying anything, but when the group turns into the park they break off and keep walking. Michael produces a bottle of vodka and coke from his bag and they take turns sipping it, walking along the road and towards Michael’s house.  
  
They sprawl in his garden on the lawn, lying looking up at the sun. Michael doesn’t roll them a joint, which is unusual, James thinks, so he rolls over and looks at him, frowning.  
  
“I can hear you thinking,” Michael sighs. His eyes are shut.  
  
“Well, we have sort of put this ‘talking’ thing off for about a month,” James replies dryly.  
  
“What’s to talk about?” Michael asks, opening his eyes and craning his neck to meet James’ gaze. “I like you, you like me, I’d quite like to touch your general person on a daily basis if that’s ok with you, and I think you feel the same way.”  
  
James blushes. He never expects Michael to be so blunt, and then he is, and it always surprises him. “Well, I mean, aren’t you freaking out about this?” he asks, genuinely confused.  
  
“Why should I be?” Michael rolls over so they’re face to face, both leaning on their elbows. “Are you concerned that just because you like me suddenly you’re gay? Fuck that.” He looks almost angry now. “Fuck labels and categories. I want you. That’s all that fucking matters.”  
  
He lies back down again and shuts his eyes. James grins, suddenly and unexpectedly incredibly happy, and does the same. “Good talk,” he adds, and Michael snorts.  
  
“You only say that because I said I want you.”  
  
“Well, I want you too, despite your appalling dye-job.”  
  
A pause.  
  
“Good to know.”  
  


** xii. june 201. **

  
  


> ✉  _From: Fassbender McTeeth (Mobile)_  
>  SO BORED can i come over and revise with you?

 

> ✔  _Message sent_  
>  THIS WILL ONLY END IN KISSES

  
  


> ✉  _From: Fassbender McTeeth (Mobile)_  
>  DAMMIT JAMES, HOW IS THIS NOT A GOOD THING?

  
  
James puts down his phone, grinning. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later there’s a knock on the front door, and Michael barges through as soon as it’s opened, slamming it behind him and pushing James into the wall as he kisses him. Kissing Michael is a little like the best thing James has ever experienced; he doesn’t even mind the rough rub of stubble that he gets afterwards on his chin or cheeks. Michael tastes like coffee, unsweetened and without milk, and James licks into his mouth desperately, wanting more and more.  
  
“This is not revising,” Michael says, seriously, forehead pressed against James’.  
  
“My prophesy came true, then,” James nods, steering them up to his room. Both his grandparents are out, so he has the house to himself. He’d actually been hoping Michael would text, so they can make the most of it. He can’t concentrate on his work, and he knows exactly why.  
  
This - whatever it is, James isn’t sure, and he’s not sure he minds yet - has only gone as far as kissing, and while that’s really quite fantastic, James is sort of hoping that he’ll be allowed to get his hands on more than just Michael’s clothes. And maybe Michael knows exactly what he’s thinking, because the first thing he does when James closes his bedroom door is to remove his jacket and shirt, kicking his shoes away and peeling off his socks. He stands shirtless in James’ room, fingers hooked into the low waist of his jeans.  
  
“Continue?” he asks, rhetorically. James licks his lips, nodding. He’d probably sing  _Ave Maria_  if Michael asked him right now.  
  
Michael grins, like he knows that, and undoes the button of his jeans, pushing them off his hips excruciatingly slowly. He’s left in a pair of black cotton briefs, which just makes him look more tan. James wonders if he plays rugby shirtless, or if he just tans really easily. He takes his time, drinking in every inch of Michael’s body, but eventually just stops pretending and stares at the bulge of his cock. He’s hard, James can tell already. Michael breathes heavily, like he’s been running, and runs his fingertips along the elastic of his briefs. “Yeah?” he asks, and James nods, not trusting himself to speak.  
  
He pushes himself away from the door where he’s been leaning, walking over to stand right in front of Michael. He wants - needs -- he doesn’t even know how to express it without completely ruining the mood, so he just pushes Michael down onto the bed and crawls over him, kissing him thoroughly. It feels odd to do this while Michael’s nearly naked and he’s still almost totally clothed, so he pulls his shirt off, undoing the top button of his jeans as Michael mouths hotly at his neck. James hisses in pleasure-pain as Michael bites down on his pulse-point, then holds his wrists down firmly as he moves down the bed. He kneels between Michael’s spread legs, trying to make his intentions perfectly clear as he pulls the black briefs away.  
  
Michael draws in a breath sharply as his cock slaps against his stomach, already hard and leaking. James relaxes a little - at least getting him ready won’t be a problem. He wonders if Zoë was any good at giving head, then shudders a little and dispels the thought. He’s never touched anyone’s dick aside from his own, but he figures they can’t be much different. Michael certainly doesn’t complain when James runs the pad of his thumb along it experimentally, and then traces the skin close to his balls. What the fuck, he thinks, and leans in, licking a long wet stripe up Michael’s cock.  
  
“Fuck,” Michael gasps, his whole body seizing. James notes that down as a winner and does it again. Michael’s toes curl and he seems to be resisting the urge to grab James’ hair, which James is sort of grateful for. He lets his lips linger over the head of Michael’s dick, his tongue flickering out before he wraps his lips around it. Michael makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut, then runs his hand reverently along the side of James’ face. James shuts his eyes, tries to ground himself, and loosens his throat as he takes Michael in deeper.  
  
There’s nothing to compare it to, James thinks. He’s not sure if it’s good or not, yet, but it makes him ache and he sort of likes it. He can feel the head of Michael’s cock pushing his cheek out, and Michael almost makes a sound as James’ teeth catch him slightly. James soothes him with a hand on Michael’s hip, and then wraps his other hand around the base of his dick and tries to take as much of him as possible in. He works on what he’s seen in porn - he never really felt comfortable asking Anne-Marie to do this, so it never happened. His mouth fills with spit, he can feel it on his chin and dripping down onto Michael’s dick, and for some reason it makes him blush. Michael’s fingers tangle in his hair, pressing gently on his scalp as James bobs his head gently.  
  
Michael breathes like he’s having trouble remembering how to stay alive, and James isn’t sure if he’s just that good or if it’s been a really long time for him. He wants to touch more, take his time, but Michael’s neck curves back beautifully and he moans, coming. James pulls back, come landing on his chin, and pants for breath. He feels like his skin is singing, especially when Michael laughs in a sort of surprised way and pushes himself up into a sitting position, kissing James and licking the come off his skin. James swallows, tasting salt and a bitter tang, and wonders if it’s ok to touch.  
  
“Hidden talents, eh?” Michael whispers, undoing James’ jeans and pushing them down along with his boxers, just enough to get James’ dick out. “I swear, I should buy Christmas presents for your mouth.”  
  
“That would be - uh - nice,” James manages, because Michael is wanking him off, his hand slick with his own come and the precome that James didn’t even realise he was leaking all over the place. He works James apart like he does everything else, sure and confident, but there’s a look in his eye that James can’t ignore. His skin feels tight over his shoulders, and he knows his blush is spreading. Michael kisses his jaw, his neck, then licks over each nipple, his other hand gently rolling James’ balls until James pulls him back up for a kiss, his cock pressing against the slick stretch of Michael’s stomach. He comes suddenly, without warning, shuddering in Michael’s hands.  
  
He reaches for some tissues a while later, but Michael catches his hands and pins them to the bed, working his way down James’ body, licking at his skin. James shifts, getting hard again, and Michael grins.  
  
“I am never studying alone again,” he says, seriously, and goes back to sucking James off.   
  


** x. summer 2011. **

  
  
A gust of wind blows James’ hair around his face as he leaves the exam hall. It’s a sunny day, he’s eighteen, and as he comes to the school gates Michael is sitting on Jillian, holding a spare helmet and grinning.  
  
“Congrats on finishing, fucking  _finally_ ,” he says, handing James the helmet.  
  
“Thanks,” James smiles, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Revising for exams was like his own personal hell - study leave dragged on and on, and by the end of it the only way he was revising was calling Michael and whining, which never worked because that meant Michael just came over and they made out. Which didn’t help his revising in the slightest, though it did give him a nice distraction.  
  
And now it’s done. Now he’s free for an entire three months, with nothing to do and no one he has to see. Except Michael. James pulls on the helmet and gets on the Vespa behind Michael, wrapping his arms around him and holding on as they ride off. Michael is sun-warmed and steady in his arms, perfect and real and possibly the most unexpectedly good thing James has had, ever. Which feels odd to think, so he lets the thought drift away, for now.  
  
Tonight they’ll go to the school prom, and then to Zoë’s after-party, and James will end up in Michael’s bed, hopefully naked.  
  
And the rest of the world will take care of itself.  
  


**xi. august 2011.**

  
  
The envelope on the table stares up at him. James fingers the corner thoughtfully, then tears it open in a rush and reads his results hungrily.  
  
Gram stands in the doorway, looking like she might burst, so James rolls his eyes and puts her out of her misery.  
  
“I guess I’m going to Durham, then,” he shrugs, and Gram lets out a scream of excitement. She pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, then steps back and cups his face in her hands.  
  
“Well done,” she says, “well  _done_. Goodness, I’m so proud of you! You should go and see Michael,” she adds, pushing him in the direction of the door. James looks over his shoulder as he leaves; if he didn’t know better, he’d say she suspected something was going on. It’s not like he minds if she does know, but they’ve never talked about it, and he figures he’ll tell her when he wants to. Right now, he and Michael are like a tight white knot of warmth in his heart, something he looks at when he’s alone, because he doesn’t feel like sharing. Not yet.  
  
He pulls the door open, and there’s that familiar  _vptptptptpvpt_  of Jillian already, like Michael read his mind. James opens the gate and Michael’s already there, drawing him into a close and almost painfully tight hug.  
  
“Hey,” he whispers.  
  
“Hey,” James replies, burying his nose into the juncture of Michael’s neck and shoulder. “Everything alright?”  
  
“I may have lied,” Michael admits, still hugging him. “About my first choice for university. I didn’t want it to be awkward if I didn’t get in.” James tries to pull away to look him in the face, but Michael doesn’t let go.  
  
“Ok, well, did you?” he asks, fisting his hands in Michael’s t-shirt. It’s the one with the hole in the neck - his favourite one. The getting together t-shirt.  
  
“Yeah,” Michael nods. He pauses. “I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with me for another three years.”  
  
This time James really does have to pull away and look him in the face.  
  
“You’re going to Durham?” he asks, gaping.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Which college?” James can feel his hands tightening on Michael’s arms, nails cutting into his skin.  
  
“Same as you.” And Michael really does look scared, James thinks. Like he’s not sure if he made the right decision. Like he’s scared James is going to flinch, pull back, pull away.  
  
So James kisses him, right there in the street, where whoever the fuck wants to can see them. He opens his mouth, pushes his tongue against Michael’s, sucks on his lower lip until Michael’s making a low noise in the back of his throat, and then he does it all again.  
  
“Fuck,” James laughs, “if we share a room I’m never going to get any work done, ever.” He can’t believe it - they’re both going to Durham. To do the same course, to live in the same place. “And we’re going to be broke as fuck.”  
  
“Exactly as planned,” Michael grins. “Well, except for that last bit.” He tangles his fingers with James’, pulls him in the direction of the park, one arm slung over James’ shoulders.  
  
James wonders briefly if this will ever grow old. If he’ll ever get tired of seeing Michael, of touching him, of being close to him. If they’ll fight - they will, actually, that’s a stupid thought - but if making up will leave them closer or further apart.  
  
“Oh, and I have these,” Michael adds, suddenly, pulling a pack of strawberry pencils out of his pocket and giving James one.  
  
Then again, James thinks, there are some things you never outgrow. Some people you never get tired of. 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this fic several years ago, as i was finishing my own sixth form years (which sounds weird now that i say it). as i wrote then, when i posted it on my lj: 
> 
> "it started out as a joke in my tags for a michael fassbender picture on tumblr, as most of my life does right now. i just wanted fic where they screeched around on a vespa, were insufferable, and made out. that it ended up as over 14k and being written while i should have been revising is... unfortunate, i suppose.
> 
> thanks to korras, kingslayer-, sometimenever, zarathuse and nordicbynature, and to credulesque, to whom owe a great many things, not just my thanks for beta-ing this fic. though without her it would have been an utter mess of spelling errors and stuff like that. ♥.
> 
> many of the moments between michael and james i borrowed from interviews. you can see them all (except the one where james thinks of a name-smush for him and michael, but idk it's on tumblr somewhere) somewhere on the internet."
> 
> the books mentioned in this fic, the unbearable lightness of being, out of africa, steppenwolf and divisadero, are all worth checking out (the first especially, it really broke me a bit), as is green wing (though I've only seen campus, done by the same people, and it was brilliant) and black books. the antlers' album hospice (listen to wake) is probably one of the most beautiful and haunting things i've ever heard. the title is from the song can't stop by the red hot chili peppers.
> 
> if you're interested in michael and james' subject choices for a-level --  
> james: english, latin, classical civilisation and drama for AS, dropping latin for A2.  
> michael: philosophy, english, classical civilisation, german and maths for AS, dropping german for A2.  
> most people do 4 or 5 subjects for AS and then drop one for A2, which is the final year of school; minimum of 3 subjects is required for university.
> 
> the school i pictured them in requires you to wear smart clothing for class, but not uniform (thus for boys you have to wear a tie, shirt and blazer). this is sort of common around central london, which is where i guess i imagined them hanging out.


End file.
